


I’m Afraid

by orphan_account



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Disorder, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone’s having a bad time, Fluff, Hancock is recovering from jet, M/M, Referenced raider attack, Sole survivor is an alcoholic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-23 23:21:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20897804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Roy can’t stand the idea of his own actions making him a failure— a liability— and Hancock’s all that can help him get over it.





	I’m Afraid

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, I’ll be honest, I haven’t played Fallout 4 in months, nor have I bothered to try it out again (but I will soon) so I apologize if there’s some inconsistencies in how I portray the characters. Smh. I’m tired and all I know is that I love these boys with my wholeass heart and I needed to give them something. 
> 
> This was also made rather quickly and inspired by a random word prompt that happened to be “I’m afraid.” 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy~

“I’m afraid.”

“Afraid a’ what, doll?”

_‘Of what?’_ Roy wondered. ‘_What am I afraid of?’_ Roy pulled his knees up to his chest, curling his arms around his legs like they were buoys to hold; keeping his head from dipping beneath the surface. He made room on the stained mattress by scooting back, giving Hancock extra space to sit. Hancock leaned to one side. He pressed his palm flat on the mattress, putting all his weight on one arm. The two looked at each other expectantly and Hancock tilted his head, waiting for a response.

_‘What am I afraid of?‘ _Roy wanted to laugh out loud at the sheer number of ideas and scenarios that came to mind. It was a passing thought— as bright as the sun— leaving behind trails of anxiety that swam around inside his head.

_‘What do I fear?’_ Hancock’s patience was sickeningly sweet; as present as the radiation burns across his skin that made his body a tapestry; telling stories of close calls by the divots in his skin and the flesh peeling off of his fingers. Roy could see it in his eyes, how a lifetime of pain made him patient for others. _Patient for Roy._

“I’m afraid of dying.” Roy mumbled. He picked at a scab on his knee—peeled over and ready to heal— and scratched the top off, wiping away the fresh blood as it slowly oozed out. ‘_I’m afraid of losing you more.’_

Hancock was quick to smile, chuckling softly behind it. “Ain’t we all afraid a’ dyin’, hon?” His query was low, dripping with a soft humor that soothed the ache in Roy’s heart.

Roy’s brow was lifted, sympathetically, and all he could think was ‘_I ain’t never feared dying before you, though.’_

Hancock had that effect on people. Had a way with folks that just made them feel a little bit better. Like things would be alright. Post-apocalyptic Boston didn’t offer much within the city besides Mutants and Ghouls. Hancock— as Roy would say it— was one of the best of em’.

Roy sighed, dragging it out long and hard. Like if he never stopped exhaling, he wouldn’t have to talk, to be here in this moment.

Hancock’s hand clasped over Roy’s. Warm skin-on-skin that would make his heart swell, were the circumstances different. He eyed the hand on his for a moment before finding the right words to say.

“I just… just never, uhm… I ain’t never….”

That southern draw in his voice was a broken tune to Hancock; cracking on every syllable and pausing to breathe like the air would run dry. Most days, it was a soft melody on his ears, thick and sweet like honey. But these days, fear had Roy on a string; tied and bound with stress carving out a place for itself deep inside him.

Hancock knitted his brow tightly with sympathy. Roy could see it in his eyes how he said— wordlessly—_“take your time, doll.”_ It was sweet to him, sickeningly so.

“I just, uhm… I ain’t never had anyone before you came along.”

Once again, not once did his voice rise above a mumble. Cowardly and shy in its demeanor. Completely out of character for him. “Never had anyone to be afraid a’ losin’.”

Hancock squeezed Roy’s hand and smiled warmly. _“Neither of us_ had each other before we came along. Doesn’t mean anything’s changed.”

Roy felt like if he opened his mouth, nothing would come out. Like he was breathing through a knot in his throat, thick as twine woven together.

“I know,” Roy felt his hand burning under Hancock’s, like the warmth of his concern for him would turn to physical heat; a burning flame as real as the two of them. “I’ve done this so many times… but with you here, I ain’t so sure I can do it anymore.”

One thing about living in a post-nuclear world was that human life tended to be scarce. Where there were people, there were tribes, factions. Groups of people banded together and united under their own beliefs and convictions in spite of old-world laws. And some people simply lacked morals.  
Not everyone was bad, though. People like Hancock— _leaders_ like Hancock— made cities with no walls, factions with no name, and unity under anarchy. Men like him could use their words to find a family within a wasteland, drawing out those with the best intentions to fight against those with the worst.

Passiveness like that draws attention. And when Raiders congregated with intentions to murder and pillage and steal as they saw fit, opposition was a must-have. And that was Roy’s job; opposing the opposition. A protector of the people right alongside Hancock.

But before Roy had arrived in post-nuclear Boston, there had never been a Hancock to him.

He was in the military before the bombs dropped. Before the world became what it is now. The bombs destroyed America in one swift blow, killing off the common class and leaving only the hardened or mutated to flourish. Being a married man in the military— one with a child nonetheless— meant that he had a VIP ticket into the nearest vault; an underground shelter that would serve as his new home, deep under post-nuclear America.

If he’d known going into that vault would mean everything he’d ever cared for dying, he would have stayed topside. Now, his family consisted of a few dozen survivors scattered about the Wasteland’s settlements, and one man; Hancock.

Hancock sighed through his nose and pulled Roy’s hand to his own chest, pressing the other man’s palm to the spot right above his heart. “It’s a routine gig, I already told ya. If all goes as planned—which it will— we’ll be in n’ out in under half an hour. Twenty minutes tops.”

Roy clicked his tongue, glancing around the room for a moment before looking back to Hancock. “If everything’d gone as planned, we’d never have allowed the Raiders past The Station Outpost.

“Hey— we never allowed anything. The caravans were just slackin’, it happens.” Hancock retorted.

Roy huffed out a sigh. It felt like the world was so much smaller these days. Radiation storms would come through ever so often and wash away trails and road-signs, making meaningful communication between settlements difficult. They had lost contact with an allied Covenant— stripped of its old mayor and given new authority— when a band of Raiders came through and sacked the place. It was mostly a militant presence there, but he could remember seeing a few civilian faces. A child being among them.

The mere thought of it all sickened him. How would things have turned out if he’d been there? How different would it be if Hancock was there, or if word had reached the settlement fast enough to tell that there was a group of Raiders on the move? A hot, shameful guilt festered inside him, feeling like a million pin-pricks beneath his skin. It made him shiver, sickened by the thought that he could have done something about it all.

And an even more sickening thought rattled between his temples; that Goodneighboor— his and Hancock’s current home— could be the next tragedy. The next settlement ransacked, reduced to nothing but a cautionary tale of reckless leaders and settlers getting too comfortable.

Hancock could see the gears turning in his head and he offered a moment for Roy to think, to process it all. He knew how often things could get a little mixed up in his head. How one thing could slip under the radar and other things were almost impossible to forget. A few too many nights spent drunkenly face-planting into furniture can do that.

“You can’t keep doin’ this to yourself, doll. You’re gonna drive yourself into the ground worryin’ about things that ain’t even happened yet. That won’t happen.”

Hancock’s tone still held a patience that Roy didn’t believe he deserved, but it gained a slight edge to it. As though Hancock’s worry got mixed up inside of him, turning into frustration. It happened often between the two of them, but Roy was always the first to snap. He didn’t have Hancock’s patience.

There was a burst of light against the window on the furthest wall—if corrugated metal and plywood counted as a wall— and Roy’s eyes flicked to the dusty pane, counting the seconds before a clash of thunder finally shook the ground.  
It was late. Late enough that the moon began to shine in an overcast sky, thick with clouds of radioactive rain. Hancock always liked his “midnight assaults” on Raider encampments. So tonight would likely be an all-nighter.

Roy however, never stayed up as late as this unless he had to. Like if a job got stretched out too long or a task wasn’t done correctly, it was his job to oversee. That was part of being The General, you had responsibilities. The sky shimmered above him if he stayed up too late. By 11:00pm, the air would be thick with a radioactive mist, causing iridescent lights to swirl just a few feet above his head, which was a common occurrence for most wastelanders. But Roy had witnessed the world before radiation tainted its atmosphere. He knew of forests and plains before the leaves fell permanently and the grass withered away to nothing more than sharp, dry weeds.

These days, a shimmering sky was merely a reminder of the life he no longer had. That he could never have again.

“You think we could just….” Roy struggled to speak, trying to form hesitant words around his anxiety. “We could just stay here?”

Hancock gave him a sympathetic smile, one that Roy saw as pity.

It was the kind of smile that Hancock would give him while he was cleaning a cut on Roy’s forehead; self-inflicted in a bout of drunken recklessness. It took Roy a long time to overcome his alcoholism— with Hancock’s help— but waking up in a world of mutant monstrosities where fighting tooth-and-nail just to survive had people chasing all kinds of ways to escape. Hancock thought Roy was lucky to have never been exposed to Jet, as alcohol was by far better. Hancock knew that struggle first-hand.

“Sunshine,” Hancock chuckled in disbelief. “You’re tellin’ me you’d rather stay here in Goodneighbor rather than be out there helpin’ people?”

“No. That ain’t what I said.”

“Sounds a lot like it.” Hancock conceded.

“Well it’s not.” Roy insisted. “I wanna help, I do. But I can’t—“

In a matter of seconds, rain was pelting the window. Heavy drops that shook the pane and hit the tin roof so hard, it sounded like it may collapse. It was as if gallons of liquid just fell from the sky all at once. Roy’s hazel eyes flicked to the window in an instant, then to the ceiling. He wondered if this was a precursor to a radiation storm, or just rain. It was nights like this that made him miss drinking himself into an unknowing stupor.

Roy pulled his hand away from Hancock’s. He leaned over the edge of the mattress, plucking his PipBoy from its place on a side table. The Geiger counter was _tick, tick, ticking_ away. It was always at a steady, yet very low, pace; the cursor always jumping ever so slightly. Now it was spiking rapidly.

After centuries of living in post-nuclear radiation, the generations had conformed to its effects. No one was without it. It had become woven into their DNA, everything that makes them who they are. Hancock was lucky to be immune to it, just as Roy is lucky to have been in a vault long enough to never know its effects.

Roy stared at the PipBoy’s screen, watching the emerald-green gauge spike back and forth without rest. Hancock watched him for a few seconds, waiting until it seemed like the vault-dweller would never tear his eyes away from the screen.

“Well Sunshine, ya’ might just get your wish.”

That’s all Roy wanted to hear. But knowing how Hancock felt about it made him wish there was another alternative.

Roy sighed heavily. He hardly gave Hancock a glance before setting his PipBoy back down on the table and pushing himself up. Small droplets of liquid hit his forehead as he stood. He wiped them away like sweat, staring up at their place of origin; a long, jagged crack in the ceiling.

Now, it was Hancock’s turn to sigh. “Guess that’s just another thing for you to fix, huh?” Hancock chuckled. “But hey,” He leaned over enough to gently tap the back of Roy’s leg. “That’s what you do best, ain’t it?”

Hancock wasn’t wrong. At least, not as history would show. If Roy was known for one thing, aside from rebuilding the Minutemen, saving people, and liberating settlements, it was fixing things. He had a knack for scrap. He could always find some way to improve a weapon, increase the durability of a tool, or deconstruct and rebuild any piece of equipment around. These days, people got by on their usefulness. Roy was happy he had some of his own.

Roy bit his thumbnail as he peered out the window. “Not like I been fixin’ much lately.” He tore off the end, taking calloused skin with it. “Feels like I’ve just been taking a lot. Destroying.”

Hancock blinked at the back of his head for a moment. “Oh c’mon, you know that isn’t true.”  
He leaned to one side, trying to see more of Roy’s face. “You and I both know you’ve helped out more around here than anyone in a long time.”

“Ain’t it though?” Roy ignored Hancock’s last comment. He turned his head quickly, looking at the other man. “Between the Institute business and that Paladin I helped, seems like bad things always happen when I show up.”

Hancock shook his head, preparing to protest before Roy muttered something under his breath.

“I shoulda’ never thawed out….”

It was low, quiet enough that Hancock might not have heard it if he’d been so much as breathing too loud. But he did. His eyes widened for a moment before he huffed an incredulous laugh.

“Are you kiddin’ me?” Hancock planted a hand on his knee, pushing himself up. “Did you see what we were before you came along?” He gestured at nothing in particular. “What we are now?”

Roy felt like curling up into a ball, receding until there wasn’t any of him left.

He hadn’t felt this low in a long time. In months. Not since he left the vault and found a world shaped by warheads and radiation. His wife dead, his child missing—kidnapped. He hadn’t known any comfort in the bottle or the barrel of a gun, not in the long run, at least. But those were things that kept him preoccupied, distracted enough to ignore the fear that loomed in the back of his mind. Now, he hadn’t so much as held a bottle in four weeks, and those weeks had felt like years. But throughout the last few days, it’s been especially hard for him.

Roy crossed his arms around himself, like he could hold himself in place with a self-hug and make it all go away. He avoided Hancock’s eyes, to which Hancock opted to lean into his direction with a prying look.

“You hearin’ what I’m sayin’? You helped us. All of us.” Hancock reached out, placing a gentle hand on Roy’s shoulder. “You helped _me.”_

Roy looked Hancock in the eye for a mere second, just long enough for him to feel he’d given away too much. Hancock had that way with him, making him feel more seen than he wanted to be.

Hancock tilted his head. “This has gotta be about more than your usefulness around here.” He muttered softly.

Drinking himself into a drunken stupor wasn’t preferable compared to most circumstances. But at this very moment, he’d take it with a smile. So much of him wanted to back out of this conversation. He had always told Hancock everything about himself; his life before the bombs, his son being taken, his fears about the world itself. But what was he supposed to say now that his fear wasn’t of boogie-man type organizations or rabid, mutated beasts, but of himself?

Roy looked into Hancock’s eyes as though he was searching for a way out, or silently pleading to the other man for a pardon from this conversation. Shame felt like a hot bubble in his chest.

“I don’t… want to talk about it.”

“About what, Doll?”

_‘About how I can’t look you in the eyes without seeing my own shame and self-pity reflected back at me.’_

“I don’t know….” Roy shook his head slightly, as though he could shake away all the fear and apprehension. He had to give Hancock something, throw him a bone, anything to make it clear that understanding wasn’t the problem, but rather the shame he felt at discussing it.

“I just… I’m not ready.”

Hancock’s eyes scanned his face for a moment. He looked to the floor, then back to Roy with an expression of such sympathy that Roy was sickened at the thought of how easily it could be replaced with pity.

“Is it cause’ you think I won’t understand?” Hancock asked. “Because I will.”

“No, it ain’t… it’s not like that.”

Hancock shook his head slightly. “Then what’s the harm in tellin’ me, Sunshine?” He asked softly.

Roy wasn’t sure what finally made him break. If it was the pet-name, spoken with such tenderness. Or the look on his face that was almost a plea for understanding. Or if it was simply exhaustion from carrying this around with him, going through the motions of trying as best he could to shove it down to the point of no return. Either way, he wanted the pain to end.

“Lately, I’ve just been feelin’... feelin like….” Roy began to shake his head, softly, then swiftly. He shut his eyes tight as they began to sting. “I haven’t…” he mumbled and in a fraction of a second, he felt himself sink to the lowest he could be. That he ever had been. Weeks of anxiety felt like tons of weight on his shoulders and at this very moment, he could feel himself finally buckling under the pressure.

His voice cracked with fear as he stuttered, and for some reason, all he could hear was the thunder outside; louder than his own thoughts.

Hancock’s hand on his shoulder was a sensation suddenly so unfamiliar to him. Like its weight and warmth were a commitment he didn’t want to make right now. His lip shook as he tried to form what he wanted to say while still keeping himself as composed as possible.

“Since you helped me— uhm, off of the…” Roy’s stuttering was interrupted only by a clash of thunder outside. Hancock however, was looking at him intently, silently listening. Like he was the only thing in the world for him.

He looked into Hancock’s eyes and felt like a bug in a jar, peered at through glass that was a wall of self-doubt. It suddenly became too much for him to handle.

Hot tears formed stark, glistening lines down his cheeks. He closed his eyes with such force, pressing them shut tightly, his brow screwed together and his lip shaking. His stuttering had stopped in an instant and Hancock pulled him close, silencing the quiet sobs with his chest. Roy laid his head on Hancock, allowing himself to be pulled down and dampening the fabric of his shirt with his tears in doing so. Talking felt easier now, which is ironic as crying had rendered him an indecipherable mess.

“I feel like a liability.” He wrapped his arms around Hancock, pulling him as close as he could. “Like I shouldn’t be here.”

Hancock put a hand on the back of his head, holding him as close as possible. “Why on earth-“

“Cause it’s all I ever think about!” He interrupted. “You helped me quit drinkin’, and I- I cant imagine where I’d be if you hadn’t but-“ his cries deepened with shame. “-I feel like I could start again at any moment.”

Roy pulled away from Hancock’s chest to look him in the eyes “If I can't keep my head straight then how— how do you know I won’t turn on you for it? How can you say I won’t end up like everyone else, turnin’ on you when you need me, all for somethin’ selfish like that?”

Hancock put a hand on his cheek and Roy leaned into it, savoring the sweet comfort.

“Because you’re not selfish.”

“But I could be-“

“You’re not.” Hancock interrupted. He thumbed away a fresh tear on his cheekbone. “You ain’t the type….”

“But I feel like- like I could break right now.” Roy cried. “Like if there’s nothin’ stopping me then I’d just— do it.”

Hancock shook his head dismissively. “You think a day goes by that I don’t think about using again? Jet ain’t a pretty drug, Sunshine, you've seen it.”

Suddenly, Hancock realized that it may have sounded like he was trying to one-up Roy. “What I’m saying is; you are what you want to be.” Roy sniffled, listening intently to Hancock

“You wanna stay sober?”

“O-Of course I do.” Roy insisted.

“Then do it. Ain’t nothing happened yet to make you do otherwise so I’d say you’re doing pretty well for yourself.” Hancock pulled Roy’s face close to his, planting a soft kiss on his forehead. “You’re the strongest survivor I know, Sunshine.  
What makes you think a little booze could change that?”

For the first time in weeks, Roy took a breath that didn’t feel borrowed somehow. “I don't know. I never cared what’d happen to me before I found you. I always thought— maybe if I just kept it to myself, I wouldn’t get anyone hurt.”

Hancock smiled softly. “No one but you, huh?”

Roy nodded slightly. “O’ course. I didn’t have to worry back then. It was… easier. Now, m’ scared what’ll happen if I go off the deep end. If I fail you.” His expression turned to a pained one for a moment. “I don’t wanna fail you….”

“Can’t think of a time you ever have.” Hancock chuckled.

Roy saw his smile and felt compelled to laugh alongside him. It was ridiculous in hindsight, how fear manages to pollute every ounce of rational thought he might have. He’s never known himself in a more complete way than when he’s with Hancock. His life before the war— with his wife— was almost like that, just a little different. But back then, fear hadn’t plunged him into drunkenness.

“S’ why I didn’t wanna head out with you. I don’t want to be there in the middle of all that when I can’t think straight. But you shouldn’t go alone, either.” Roy conceded. “I don’t want you to be alone.”

“You worry too much, you know that?” Hancock grabbed his face with both hands, cupping a cheek in each palm. “I’m not going anywhere, Love. It’s you and me. You’re gonna get through this— just like everything else— and we’re gonna lead this place together.”

“But what if i-“

“Even if I gotta stay with you every night, I’ll be there.” Hancock interrupted. “You’re not alone in this. You know that, right?”

Roy felt like the world had gotten a little brighter. As though the clouds had parted and allowed the sun to shine for just a little while, even though it was late, and the only light to speak of was the chains of lightning zipping across the sky.

Hancock waited for a moment. “I wanna hear you say it.” He insisted. “That you understand you’re not alone.”

“I understand, I know.” Roy managed a smile and the tears were completely gone.

Hancock looked into his eyes for a moment and it seemed he was satisfied with his answer. “Good.” He smiled. He pulled Roy’s face closer to his, pressing their lips together delicately. Roy Inhaled deeply, sighing into the kiss.

When Hancock pulled away, there wasn’t a frown to be spoken of in the room. Roy hadn’t necessarily been wanting to get that off his chest, but looking back on it now, he felt stupid for treating it like such a big secret. Hancock has always been one to pull information from Roy. That’s his gift with him, knowing just what to say at the right time. Roy was glad he’d done it now more than ever.

**Author's Note:**

> Boys, let’s be real here. If you woke up in a post-nuclear world where everyone you love is either dead or a damned disappointment. It’d be drink-time all the time. Much love for Roy and my boy Hancock in working through it all together. 
> 
> Please let me know of any errors/inconsistencies— I’ll be more than happy to correct them!


End file.
